


Late Bloomer

by kiite



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Nakamaship, sorta. def a hopeful ending, youll probably figure out the au pretty fast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiite/pseuds/kiite
Summary: Sanji realizes he might not be the person he thought he was.
Relationships: Mugiwara Kaizoku | Strawhat Pirates & Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 26
Kudos: 316





	Late Bloomer

The first time he can remember it happening, Sanji was eleven.

He knew that he wasn’t supposed to use the stepladder unsupervised. But he was _so short,_ and the cabinet was _so high up._ If Zeff didn’t want him to break the rules, he should have put the backup bags of flour somewhere more accessible. 

He could have— and by all means, should have— asked Zeff to help him get it down, but Sanji had sworn that he was going to make Zeff’s birthday cake all on his own; no help from the other chefs, and certainly no help from Zeff. 

As he reached the top step of the ladder, Sanji raised up onto his tiptoes as he tried to open the top cabinet. He was _so close_ , the bag was nearly in his grasp, he almost had it—

His foot slipped, and suddenly he was falling backwards. He let out a short yell before the back of his head collided with the counter of the island. Sanji rolled on the ground, bringing his hands to the back of his head, expecting pain or blood or _anything,_ but there was none. As he stared at his hands in confusion, the telltale sound of Zeff’s pegleg grew louder until the door was thrown open.

“Why the hell are you making a racket at this hour, brat?” Zeff asked as he appeared in the doorway. It only took him a moment to look from the ladder to Sanji, laying on the ground with his hands on the back of his head, and he understood what had happened. He kneeled beside the boy, sitting him up and supporting him with a firm hand on his back. 

“What happened?” Zeff asked, moving Sanji’s hand away from his head to inspect for damage. He frowned in confusion when he found no sign of injury.

Sanji blinked, looking up. “I fell off the ladder when I was trying to reach the top cabinet. I hit my head on the counter when I fell,” he continued, pointing to the spot where he had struck the island, “but… it doesn’t hurt.”

Zeff rose and examined the counter. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, running his fingers across the thoroughly chipped edge. It looked as though it had been struck with a hammer several times. “I always knew you were hard-headed, brat, but this is ridiculous.”

“Sorry,” Sanji said, with none of his usual bite, “I didn’t mean to break the counter.”

Turning back to the boy on the floor, Zeff gave Sanji an odd look before extending a hand to help him up. He led his apprentice over to a chair and sat him down, taking the chair opposite him for himself. For the next few minutes Zeff interrogated Sanji about how he felt— mostly trying to discern if he had a concussion or not— but Sanji was, inexplicably, completely fine. Zeff couldn’t understand it, but he had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Sanji shooed him out of the kitchen, insisting that Zeff couldn’t know about what he was making, and Zeff complied; though Sanji was warned that if he did something stupid like that again, he’d be banned from the kitchen for a week. Seeing that he took it seriously, Zeff ambled back to his quarters, unable to shake the strange unease clinging to him.

* * *

“Sanji! I need another bottle of olive oil over here!” 

Sanji looked up from chopping and turned his head in the direction of the shout; Carne, huh. He should have guessed; Carne never seemed to grab enough stuff. Abandoning his work at the prep station, Sanji hurried to the pantry, reaching for the oils.

“C’mon Sanji, you’re not a kid anymore!” Carne’s voice rang out despite the noise of the kitchen. “I would’ve thought you would know where the oil is by now!”

Sanji grit his teeth as his fingers wrapped around the base of the bottle. “Shut up, you shitty chef! I already have it, asshole!” he shouted back. In one motion, Sanji pulled out the bottle and turned to run it over to Carne and—

The sound of glass shattering brought all eyes in the kitchen to Sanji. The chef in question was looking down at his hand, the one in which he had grabbed the bottle. It was a mess of blood, oil, and shards of glass embedded in the skin; it _hurt_ , and he knew that, but more than anything, Sanji was confused. Why had—?

Sanji moved in a bit of a daze for the next few minutes. Without realizing it he was upstairs, aware that someone must have guided him out of the kitchen. He didn’t have time to dwell on it, as Patty soon swept into the room with the first aid kit in hand. After laying down a towel, he pulled Sanji's bloodied hand up onto the table and got to work pulling out the glass.

“The hell was that all about?” Patty asked him, not taking his eyes off his work. Sanji flinched each time a shard of glass clattered on the table. “What’s with the iron grip?”

“I—“ Sanji started, but winced as a particularly strong jolt of pain shot through him. “I don’t know. I just… I grabbed it like normal, I wasn’t squeezing or anything, at least I don’t think I was. It just… shattered.”

Patty finally looked up, and he gave Sanji that strange look that he was starting to become accustomed to; it was the look someone gave him every time something happened that just didn’t add up. Every time Sanji did something they couldn’t explain. He had been getting it more and more as he got older. 

Sanji sighed, eyes flicking down to his bandaged hand. “I’ll get it under control, so…” He bit his lip and looked back up at Patty, unable to keep the hint of desperation out of his voice. “Just don’t tell Zeff, ok? He’d probably keep me out of the kitchen for a while if he found out.”

“What the hell am I supposed to tell him, idiot?” Patty sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. “When he gets out of his office, there’s no way he’s not gonna notice how backed up the kitchen is.”

Sanji tangled his uninjured hand in his hair. “I don’t know, just— make something up? Tell him I dropped the bottle and cut myself cleaning it up instead of—“ Sanji paused, thinking. “—whatever the hell happened?”

Finally, Patty gave in. “Fuck, _fine_ , I’ll cover your ass— but just this once! If you start breaking shit again I’m telling the boss right away; can’t have blood in the food.” 

Sanji would have thanked him, but that wasn’t the kind of relationship they had. Instead, he flipped the man off, and was flipped off in return as Patty headed back to the kitchen. His attention drifted back to his hand, flexing it gently as though he was afraid of his own strength. 

_What the hell happened back there?_

* * *

Sanji sat on the couch in the men’s quarters, watching the little reindeer scribble a few notes in a small journal. The doctor had been a part of the crew for only about two weeks now, and one of his first orders of business was one-on-one meetings with everyone to get an idea of their individual medical situations. Sanji had to admit he was impressed by the thoroughness. 

Chopper had asked about pretty standard stuff; allergies— specifically to certain kinds of medicines—, blood type, medical conditions, old wounds. Anything to make sure he could give them the best possible treatment. Afterwards, he had done a short physical exam; it wasn’t _too_ invasive, and Sanji appreciated that.

“Am I good to go, doc?” Sanji asked, stretching his legs out. He had been sitting for a while now, and he always preferred being moving and busy if he could help it. Besides, now was the perfect time to go start dinner prep.

“Um, well…” Chopper replied nervously, passing the pen between his hooves without much thought. When Sanji gave him a slightly concerned look, the doctor was quick to assuage any potential fears. “Sorry, there’s, um, there’s nothing wrong with you! You’re in good health— though I wish you would stop smoking, but that’s up to you.”

“What I wanted to ask you about,” Chopper continued, picking up his notebook and leafing through, “was, well— Do you have a history of any skin conditions, Sanji?”

The question caught him off guard. Sanji blinked, unsure of exactly how to answer. As far as family history went, Sanji didn’t really have any idea of his birth family’s medical history. But if he was answering personally, then…

“Not that I know of?” Sanji answered, not sounding all that confident. The fact that Chopper had raised the issue at all was making him feel as though he was about to be proven wrong.

Chopper frowned, opening a medical book he had brought with him. He flipped for a bit before reaching what he was looking for, turning the book around and passing it to Sanji.

“You display some conditions characteristic of scleroderma, but…” Sanji glanced down at the book in his hands. _Scleroderma: hardening and tightening of the skin in affected areas..._ Without thinking, Sanji’s hand moved to ghost over the back of his neck and head. The familiar, unyielding patches were still there, hard as always. 

He must have zoned out at some point, because he realized that Chopper’s stream of medical babble had ceased. The doctor was watching him with a mixture of concern and expectancy, leading Sanji to the conclusion that he was waiting for some sort of answer; to what, Sanji wasn’t sure.

“Sorry, could you repeat that last bit?” Sanji asked apologetically, turning his full attention to the doctor. Chopper nodded, tapping his hooves together restlessly. 

“The hard patches are in odd areas. Not really the typical areas for scleroderma, and from our earlier talk, it doesn’t sound like you suffer from any of the other symptoms.” Chopper planted his hooves on the chair between his legs, looking down with a sigh. “As your doctor, I don’t like saying this, but, um… I’m not really sure what this is. I’ve never seen anything exactly like it.”

To be honest, that was about what Sanji had expected. He had known that whatever was happening to him was abnormal, by the way Zeff and Patty had looked at him, by the way anyone who _saw_ looked at him. Sanji had his suspicions that it wasn’t even a disease— that it couldn’t be cured. However, his doctor didn’t need any more demoralizing.

Sanji reached forward and gently rested a palm on the top of Chopper’s hat. The little reindeer looked up at him, eyes watery. “Don’t worry,” Sanji said with a relaxed smile, patting the plush pink hat, “You’re going to cure every disease, right? There’s bound to be some hurdles along the way. I’ve got faith in my doctor.”

Chopper’s eyes lit up, a blush creeping over his face. He wiggled a bit his chair. “Shut up, you dumbass! That doesn’t make me happy at all! You bastard!”

 _He sure looks happy_ , Sanji thought with a genuine smile. If there was any cure for whatever he had, Sanji was certain he’d find it with these people.

* * *

The weight was crushing. Nami gasped, forcing herself to her hands and knees, before standing with all her strength. The debris from the collapsed warehouse slid off her back, crashing into the other piles of metal around her. Somehow, she was alive.

Well, maybe “somehow” wasn’t entirely accurate. After being in Sanji’s body for a while, Nami was beginning to notice something strange: Sanji’s body was incredibly durable. If she had been in her own body when the building had collapsed, she probably wouldn’t be standing here now. She didn’t know how to use haki, so it wasn’t that. Was Sanji just… indestructible?

Nami knew Sanji had trained hard during the two years they’d all spent apart; she’d certainly seen the results of that training during their time on Fishman Island— when he was conscious, at least. 

But this was something… _different_. Something you couldn’t achieve through training, as far as she could tell. Nami couldn’t tell if it was simply her imagination, but at times her hand would brush over a patch of skin that felt like steel; hard, with no give when she pressed on it. 

She couldn’t be sure though. After all, it was cold, and she could barely feel _anything_ — not to mention the layers of clothes and the mittens. She had probably imagined the feeling, and Sanji’s body was just very durable. And those supernaturally fast reflexes, even when separated from his observation haki… Those must be from training too, she told herself.

The strange feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t go away, no matter how many explanations she gave herself. Nami wasn’t an idiot; she knew there was something more going on. But if Sanji hadn’t told them before, he probably wasn’t going to open up about it now. 

Nami shook her head, stray snow falling out of the blonde hair she kept somehow forgetting about, even though it constantly hung over half of her face— despite her best efforts to pin it back. She couldn’t worry about this now; there were too many other things taking priority right now. She would grill Sanji about it later, when they all got back to the Sunny— and their own bodies.

* * *

Sanji’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edges of the sink. The reflection that greeted him in the mirror looked terrified. This was— this was a normal thing, right? This happened to everyone in their early twenties? 

He stiffened as he spotted another black hair that had sprouted up near his roots. Sanji was quick to tear it out, ignoring the prick of pain. Rolling the pitch black strand between his thumb and finger, Sanji let his nerves consume him.

Sanji was born blond. Both his parents were blond. It didn’t make sense for his hair to be turning black— not only genetically, but just in general. He wasn’t planning on his hair changing color until he was an old man, not when he was twenty-one. Why would—

Sanji’s mind went to his siblings. No, he— he wasn’t like them, he was _normal_ , he had feelings and a regular body and— his mind went blank as various memories of his youth flooded him. All the inexplicable occurrences, the accidents that should have injured him, the strange developments… But it didn’t make any _sense_! The experiment didn’t work on him. He was a normal human.

Right?

His hand flew to his mouth as he fought back the sudden urge to be sick. It was all too much. The thought of becoming like his siblings— specifically, like his brothers, though he didn’t much care for his sister either— made him sick to his core. He couldn’t stand it. Sanji would much rather die than end up like _them_.

Sanji looked down at his black vest, and his hands went to unbutton it. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He slid out of it, leaving only his blue undershirt. To say that this was a sudden revelation would be a lie; Sanji wasn’t an idiot, he had noticed the strange things that happened to him as he grew up. He had just chosen to tell himself that it couldn’t be related to _them,_ and it was something else entirely. Sanji didn’t think he could do that anymore.

Something was wrong with him.

* * *

The kitchen was quiet as Sanji laid the fish on his cutting board. Outside the door, he could hear the laughter and high spirits of his crew as the more active members chased each other around the grassy deck. The familiar, comforting buzz of activity calmed Sanji’s nerves almost as much as the cigarette dangling from his lips. As he methodically cleaned the fish in the way he had done a million times before, his mind began to wander.

Sanji had begun to come to terms with the inevitable truth of his situation. It had become impossible to deny that whatever Judge had done to his sons, he had done to _all_ his sons; for whatever reason, Sanji’s development had simply been a bit delayed. A bitter laugh nearly escaped him at that thought. Had Judge simply been a slightly more patient man, maybe he wouldn’t have had to toss out his “broken” son. Maybe he would have held Sanji the way he did his brothers. 

Maybe Sora would have looked at him with the same sadness that overtook her whenever his brothers were mentioned.

_Chop, chop, chop._

He couldn’t remember his brothers ever visiting their mother before her passing. He had spent a lot of time by her bedside as a child, and never once did he see them anywhere near the ward. On one occasion, he had asked his mother if they had ever come by, but all he had gotten was that look. Now, he understood what it meant.

Sanji had seen the way his brothers had reacted whenever Sora had been brought up around them. Empty, unresponsive— as though the discussion was about some stranger, and they had no stake in it. Though, for all intents and purposes, it might as well have been.

Why would they be engaged with someone they couldn’t feel anything for? 

_Chop, chop, chop._

Judge had made it perfectly clear that one of Sanji’s numerous failings was his ability to feel things his brothers clearly couldn’t. He was soft; he had empathy for things he should hurt without a second thought, he had kindness where he should have nothing, he had love. 

He had love. Now.

What if he lost that?

_Chop, chop, chop, chop,_

Everything _else_ in his life seemed to be changing beyond his control. His hair, his skin, his reflexes— what was to stop him from becoming an unfeeling husk of a person like one of his brothers? The changes had been a slow creep throughout his entire life, gradual, so slow he hadn’t even noticed them until the day he noticed them all at once. Maybe it had already started— maybe he had already been losing what made him human, and he just hadn’t noticed yet.

Maybe he was never human to begin with.

_Chop-chop-chop-chop-chop-chop_

That left him with one question. What did this mean for him, who had built his entire life around love for others? Everything he did, from making a dish to taking a hit to fighting with everything he had, he did out of love. Different forms of love, maybe, but all love nonetheless. He couldn’t fathom a life without love.

If he didn’t love, and in turn didn’t possess a desire to protect his crewmates… Could he be controlled, the way his brothers were by Judge? If someone told him to turn the knife in his hand on one of his friends, what would be there to stop him from— 

“Mister Cook,” a voice cut into his downward spiral, pulling him back to reality with an iron grip, “I don’t believe that fish can be cut any thinner.”

Precisely when Robin had entered the kitchen and seated herself at the table, Sanji wasn’t sure. What he _did_ know was that he wasn’t expecting her to be there, and at the sudden sound of another voice, a few things happened at once. He spun around quickly, locking eyes with the archaeologist, and at the same time he forcefully threw the knife in his hand as far away from himself as possible.

The clattering of the steel on the kitchen tile as the knife hit the ground and slid a good distance was deafening in the silence. Though Robin’s view of the floor was obscured by the counter, she clearly understood what had happened, and turned her scrutinizing gaze back to Sanji. 

“You seem to have a lot on your mind, Mister Cook.” Hands sprouted out of the floor, feeling around for the knife and carefully lifting it up to the counter. Sanji watched without comment.

If Zeff had seen him treat his tools of the trade with such disrespect, he’d have kicked Sanji back to Paradise— hell, maybe even back to the East Blue. But in that moment, Sanji had been envisioning a scenario in which he treated his precious cookware as a _weapon_ , and that thought had been so startling and wrong and _dangerous_ that he felt he could no longer hold it in his hand. Especially not with Robin there.

He turned back to look at his cutting board. Robin was right; what had once been a whole fish had been reduced to nearly a paste through his distracted and sloppy work. He frowned— he could still work with this, of course, just not for the dish he had been planning to make. Maybe he’d lose all his cooking skills, since he seemed to be in the business of becoming a person he didn’t recognize.

“You could say that,” Sanji answered dryly, not turning back to Robin. Robin was good at hiding her emotions, but Sanji was still afraid of what he’d see on her face. If it was anything like the sadness on his mother’s face that he couldn’t stop picturing, Sanji wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold it together. 

Robin considered him for a moment more— his posture, his tone, everything, in that overly calculating way she always did. “You trust us, right, Sanji?”

The use of his actual name from the older woman got Sanji to turn around, visible eye wide in surprise as he processed the seeming non sequitur. 

“Of course I trust you, Robin- _chwan!_ And Nami _-swan!_ ” Sanji exclaimed, hands clasped together by his face. He paused, tone dropping back down to its usual pitch as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “...And those other shitheads too, I guess.” 

If his desperate ploy for levity at all lightened the heavy atmosphere in the kitchen, Sanji couldn’t feel it. Robin just smiled at him, eyes narrowing slightly. He felt as though she was seeing through every part of him, and it made him squirm.

“That’s all I wanted to know,” she said, her all-knowing smile never leaving. Sanji knew he was supposed to get more out of the question himself than she had by asking it— that was usually how Robin delivered her advice. “Oh, and Mister Cook? I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

Sanji walked over to the knife, carefully gripping the handle. His reflection stared back at him from the gleaming metal, startlingly unrecognizable; the black in his hair had crept far down from his roots, nearly pushing the last strands of blond completely out. It had long since become impossible to hide that change from his crew; Zoro had made an offhand comment about picking up more blond hair dye at the next island, and Sanji had come close to tearing him to shreds. It was obvious that most of the crew was still curious about the sudden change, but they could tell he’d rather not talk about it. 

He wanted to say that it wasn’t really what _he_ was doing with his hair, that he had no choice in this. He wanted to say that he hated it, that he wished it would stop, that he was glad _someone_ liked it, at least. He sure didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Thanks.”

* * *

“Hey, Captain.” 

Luffy turned around from his perch at the front of the ship, wide round eyes focusing in on the source of the voice. As soon as he recognized his cook, a wide grin spread across his face.

“Sanji! Meat!”

Sanji sighed. He would have kicked his captain, had he not been sitting all the way up on the figurehead. “It’s midnight, dumbass. Wait until breakfast.” To be honest, Sanji wasn’t sure what Luffy was doing out here at this time of night. Though, their captain’s schedule had always been a mystery to the crew. 

Luffy just pouted, rolling over to lie flat on his back. “So mean.”

Sanji leaned against the railing, sparking his lighter a few times as he lit a cigarette. The wind blowing off the sea ruffled his pitch black hair, not allowing it to sit comfortably over the right side of his face. 

“You remember those shithead brothers of mine?” Sanji asked out of the blue, breaking the silence. He took a long drag on his cigarette, eyeing his captain with his one visible eye. 

Luffy’s pout shifted to a thoughtful frown, as he genuinely tried to picture the men in question. After a moment, his face lit up in realization. 

“Oh yeah! Those guys who look like you!” Luffy exclaimed, stretching his arm down to poke Sanji’s eyebrow. Sanji grabbed his wrist with an iron grip, not releasing it until Luffy whined out an apology. “They were weirdos. I’m glad they helped us escape, but I still don’t like them!” 

“That makes two of us,” Sanji stated flatly, though he couldn’t stop the beginnings of a smile from tugging at the edges of his mouth. It was short lived, though, as Sanji remembered the topic he had chosen to broach. 

“Luffy… if I ever became like them— you know, vicious and sadistic and all-around shitty— would you…” Sanji trailed off, hissing out a stream of smoke from between his teeth. He _really_ didn’t want to talk about this, especially with the memories of his disastrous wedding still fresh in his mind— despite the fact that it was several months behind them. 

“...Would you let me leave the crew?” 

Luffy turned to him now, and Sanji could tell his captain was trying to figure a few things out. Sanji waited patiently, tapping his cigarette on the railing over the ocean to loose the ashes. He was doing it right this time— he was getting his captain’s permission to leave, like he should. Not that he wanted to leave, or planned to any time soon, but he needed to know; if he was going to become dangerous to his crew in the future, he couldn’t stay here. No way.

“No.” 

Sanji nearly crushed the cigarette between his fingers. “Why?” he asked incredulously, though he supposed he should have expected this; Luffy didn’t much like parting with his crewmates. “It’s not like— I don’t _want_ to leave! I’m just saying, if I end up like them, you won’t want me to—“

“You can’t leave, because you don’t want to,” Luffy replied in that authoritative way of his, stopping Sanji in his tracks. He didn’t really know how to refute that. He could say that even if he didn’t want to, it would be for the safety of everyone else, and that had to come first— but he already knew Luffy wasn’t going to accept that, either.

“You’ll regret keeping me around if it comes to that, you know.” Sanji said, frustration creeping into his voice as he returned his cigarette to his lips. His words were a sign that he had admitted defeat on the matter, and Luffy knew it.

“That’s fine! It’ll be my problem as captain, not yours, so you can’t tell me how to deal with it anyway,” Luffy countered, sticking out his tongue for emphasis. “Besides, you’re not gonna end up like them, because you’re Sanji, and they’re Not-Sanjis.”

Sanji wasn’t even certain where to start with that, so he just snorted. “I appreciate the sentiment, Captain, but I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Why not?” Luffy asked, propping himself up on his elbows. “Even if you change, you’re still Sanji, and you’re still our cook.” As if to prove his point, he gestured towards Sanji again, careful not to get too close this time. “Your hair is black now, but you’re still Sanji. Right?”

Sanji raised a hand to run it through his dark locks, briefly exposing his other eye. “Huh. Yeah. I guess so.” In his head, Sanji could come up with a million complications that made that argument faulty— but he chose not to. The words did little to assuage his long term fears, but if there was one thing his captain was good at, it was making him remember what was important in the present. Whatever he was afraid of becoming, he wasn’t that yet, and maybe he never would be.

“Don’t talk about leaving anymore,” Luffy said, a hint of perturbation woven into the scolding. “We need you here, Sanji.” 

“Won’t happen again, Captain. You’re stuck with me,” Sanji answered with a grin, snubbing out his cigarette and walking across the deck towards the kitchen. When he felt Luffy’s gaze focused on his back, he stopped, turning to look over his shoulder. “You coming? I’m in the mood to try out a new meat dish, and somebody’s got to try it.”

Sanji realized his mistake when a pair of rubber arms stretched past him on either side, reaching forward to grab the kitchen door frame. He tried to duck out of the way, but it was too late— Luffy had launched himself from the figurehead towards the kitchen, and Sanji was directly in his path. 

As Luffy slammed into him, sending them both crashing into the kitchen and almost certainly breaking the door, Sanji laughed. It was strange— normally he’d curse, groan, kick his captain and scold him for his thoughtlessness; but instead, he just laughed. He knew he should be concerned about waking up his crew, but he didn’t care.

It was the first time he’d felt honestly not miserable about himself in a while, and he wasn’t going to let it go.

Luffy looked at his cook, covered in splintered pieces of the door and laughing like he’d just seen Zoro fall in a mud puddle, and smiled wide. Sanji sat himself up, dusting the debris off his clothes and wiping the joyful tears from the corners of his eyes. The two sat there for a moment longer, waiting for Sanji to calm back down. Even once his laughing fit had ended, the warm feeling in his chest remained.

“Thanks,” Sanji said, as though he was going to continue, but opted not to. 

His captain’s grin widened, and he slapped Sanji on the back. “’Course!”

Maybe one day he’d turn out like a proper Germa experiment. Maybe he’d lose what made him Sanji, maybe he’d endanger his crew just by being around; but right now, none of that was important. 

The only thing that mattered to Sanji right now was making this dish for his captain.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for readin, hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
